Later, in bed, a thunderstorm awakens Rosemary. Gregory had lain most of the night staring at the ceiling, listening to the storm’s first grumbles, distant, watching as flashes of heat lightning gave the room a black and white unreality for a second. He had traced the course of the storm as it moved closer, sweeping across the lake. Now, the rain beats against the roof of the cottage, staccato, wind rips through the maple trees outside. The house trembles. Gregory thinks this should be comforting, here all snug and warm in bed with his wife beside him. So why is he feeling tense, as if her very touch will send him hopping from the bed?
“Better check the windows.” Rosemary slides from the bed just as a flash of lightning illuminates the room and her naked body, looking blue-white, electric
